The Merry Wives of Downton and The Grand Finale
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Edith finally has her wish and is going to direct Romeo and Juliet. If Sybil will let her, that is.
1. Chapter 1

**I think I'm probably taking spectacular liberties with history; I think I've cancelled the first world war. It's AU anyway, so I think can. I intend to make the most of this; these fics are so fun to write. I hope you like it.**

**-Prologue-**

"So," Sybil consulted her list, "That's everyone from the first scene cast."

Edith snapped back to the here and now.

"Excellent," she replied hurriedly, as if she had been listening to her sister all the while, "So who are we still left with?"

"Juliet... The Nurse... The Friar...-"

"Not Romeo?" Edith asked.

"No," Sybil looked at her pointedly, "Do try to keep up Edith, Cousin Matthew's going to be Romeo."

"Oh. So who's going to be Juliet?" 

"I am."

"What?" Edith hissed, caught between being appalled and thrilled by the idea, "Mary will never let you!"

"Ah, but Mary's not the director, is she? You are."

Edith was quiet for a second, a look of ill-disguised glee spreading across her features.

"Yes, I suppose I am."

"I'm glad we've established that," Sybil shuffled through her notes, "Now, for my nurse-..."

"I heard that Mrs Patmore is trying to lay a claim to that role," Edith told her, "O'Brien, I think, mentioned it."

"Well she's too late," Sybil told her flatly, "I've already held the audition for it."

"Oh," Edith hadn't quite realised that when she'd asked Sybil to give her a hand with the direction that she'd be quite _this _helpful, "And who have you chosen?" 

"Mrs Hughes."

"Mrs Hughes? But the Nurse is supposed to be very loud, and gossiping, and rambling, and comic. Surely-..."

"You've never heard Mrs Hughes when she's talking to Cousin Isobel, have you?" Sybil asked. "Anyway, she's a good enough actress and what I did was I asked her if she remembered the day I was born and she said she could. If I'm Juliet, Mrs Hughes _has _to be the Nurse."

Edith did not point out that Sybil didn't _have _to be Juliet, in fact she scarcely heard the latter sentences at all.

"What is _she _doing?" she wanted to know.

Sybil was puzzled.

"Who?"

"Cousin Isobel."

"Oh goodness, Edith! I'm sorry to have say it, but I'm starting to agree with Mama and Mary. It really is time you got over that business with Sir Anthony at Christmas. You know very well she didn't even agree to marry him!"

Edith settled back down into haughty silence; evidently, she wasn't going to get over it any time soon. Sybil sighed.

"If it matters so much to you, she's playing Lady Montague; Romeo's mother. I'm going back to the Macbeth principle that if you have as much of the cast as possible playing themselves it makes everything a lot easier. And she's doing the costumes, of course," she added as almost as an afterthought.

"You said we still had to cast the Friar?" Edith asked, eager to steer the discussion away from her "rival".

"Not exactly. I've already done the audition for that too."

"Who?" Edith asked, growing more and more irritated with this pattern that was emerging.

"Carson."

"Carson?" Edith repeated.

"Yes, Carson. You know, our butler. I took the liberty of asking him to read a passage of the Bible to me after he'd served the drinks last night. He sounded very holy."

Edith snorted.

"That's almost as ridiculous as asking Branson to play Tybalt."

"I have, now you mention it."

"What?" Edith laughed out loud, "I thought you said you want people to play themselves! You can't have a socialist pacifist playing and violent aristocrat! Tybalt is a villain!"

"Mr Branson is a villain," Sybil replied calmly, trying not to smile, "So much so that recently Mrs Hughes has come to call him "The Cad.""

"That's apparently because he winks at her a lot, or so I've heard," Edith told her dismissively, "Honestly, Sybil, I don't want you to ruin my production for me before it's even begun by being too risky with the casting!"

"Don't worry," Sybil replied smartly, "Edith, the first thing I've learned about this sort of thing is that you have to live outside the box- not just think there. And you _have _toruffle a few feathers."

**-Chapter 1-**

There was a knock on the front door of Crawley House. Visitors were certainly expected; many visitors, in fact. Quite as many as there had been the last time; and as a result the inevitable commotion had recommenced. All persons considered properly suitable for answering the door were ensconced in this commotion upstairs.

"It's alright, Molesley," Isobel called up the stairs, "You and Matthew keep going. I'll get the door."

Ignoring Molesley's protests, Isobel proceeded down the hallway. It would only be Matthew's friends: they had seen her playing tennis a year ago on the modest lawn in the back garden- sleeves rolled up, nostrils apparently flaring in exhilaration- the sight of her answering her own front door would hardly kill them.

"Hello!" she cried, taking the handle with spirit and swinging the door wide open, expecting to James' or George's grinning face to greet her.

Lord Strallan stood on the doorstep, with his suitcase at his feet.

"Hello," he replied quietly, smiling a little- presumably at the ridiculous display he had just witnessed. They stood there in silence, neither really knowing what to say next, looking at each other's ears and blinking gratuitously. She had known that this would happen- not just the blinking, but all of it- and that was why she had advised Sybil so strenuously against it. "Sybil," she had said, "I beg of you not to send him here. I beg of you. I _implore _you, Sybil. Keep him up at the main house!" But her protests had fallen upon deaf ears- as such protests so often did when they were aimed at Sybil.

In spite of this, however, it was her who recovered first.

"Lord Strallan," she offered him her hand to shake.

He kissed it.

"Mrs Crawley. I do so hope this won't be awkward."

At that remark, she thought she probably deserved a small chuckle.

"You hope it won't; but no doubt it will."

Thankfully, he also seemed to see the funny side of it.

"Yes," he agreed.

"At least you shouldn't be forced into a ridiculous costume this time," she told him, "Who is it you're playing, by the way? I don't think Sybil's told me."

"Er, a chap called Lord Montague, I believe. Might I ask who you're playing, or is it just the costumes again?"

Isobel was flabbergasted for a moment, putting two and two together.

"Lady Montague."

"Ah."

Another pause.

"Won't you come in?" she asked, needing desperately to escape this new level of awkwardness to which they had sunk and realising that they were having this conversation on her front doorstep. She got out of his way, and he picked up his case.

By this time, Molesley had extracted himself from shifting the upstairs furniture and took Lord Strallan's coat and case, directing him into the sitting room. Isobel- flustered- allowed her a moment of rest, leaning back against the closed front door. Then came another knock, causing her to jump a little.

"I'll get it, Molesley!" she called, "I'm there anyway."

She opened the door.

"Hello, Mrs C."

Suddenly, though of course she was happy to see her young lodgers-by now their presence was almost ordinary-, she felt utterly exhausted.

"Hello George, James, Christopher," she got out of the way of the door again, "Everybody in."

…**...**

"On the stage? At the gaiety?" Really, if Sybil had thought she'd heard her grandmother sound appalled before now, she had been mistaken, "Me? Sybil, my dear girl, you must be out of your mind! It's preposterous!"

"I don't see why," Sybil's mother chipped in- albeit timidly- from the corner, for which Sybil was rather grateful, "We are all going on. And it's proper classical drama; it's hardly what I'd call the gaiety. Oh, Sybil dear, thank you! I've never been on the stage before!"

Mama sounded almost like a little girl on Christmas morning.

"No one better to play my mother than my mother," she pointed out levelly.

"Well, in that case, why cannot I play your grandmother?" Granny wanted to know.

"Because Juliet's grandmother doesn't appear in the play." 

"Precisely."

"Oh, Granny," Sybil was growing quite tired now, "You're only the Chorus-..."

"The what?"

"The Chorus. You make two speeches and that's it."

"Well, then, why don't I have more? If I'm to be involved in this ridiculous pantomime I should like to have plenty to do!"

Really, Granny was impossible.

"Well, then, move your face around a lot or-..."

"I haven't said anything about agreeing to this!" Granny reminded her stoutly.

Sybil sighed; she had to admit, Granny's temperament was best when it didn't affect one's own plans. Her mother, however seemed to have an idea, if the look on her face was anything to go by.

"Cousin Isobel is taking part," she told her.

This, to Sybil, was certainly an odd approach; and only likely to make Granny want to distance herself even further from taking on a role.

"My dear Cora, not wishing to beat about the bush, I don't care if she's singing Madame Butterfly at the Royal Albert Hall!"

Though so, Sybil thought, wondering what tack her very brave mother might try next.

"I'm sure you don't. Only one wouldn't like to be outdone. That's all."

Sybil bit her lip to stop herself from grinning. Mama might as well have taken off her shoe and flung it at Granny's face for the effect that statement had on her.

…**...**

"So you've been alright?" Elsie asked, "It hasn't been too awkward?"

Having fancied the walk, and getting away from the house- where the young men who were going to have to fight on stage were being instructed in the rudiments of duelling-, she was accompanying Isobel back to Crawley House. It was a nice evening.

"It's been three days," Isobel reminded her, "Two of which we've spent rehearsing until we're blue in the face anyway. But he hasn't asked me to marry him again, if that's what you mean, and nor do I think he will," she chuckled, "At least, not in a hurry."

"Rehearsing playing man and wife," Elsie reminded her, "I must say, it makes rather a change that it's not me having to do that."

Isobel cast her a rather amused glance at this latter thought, before saying that she had grown to sympathise with her more about this recently; at the moment she could quite happily kill Lady Sybil.

"She just enjoys being impertinent," and then, at the risk of being so herself, added, "It runs in the family."

"I can't think what you mean by that," Isobel told her, "No, Lord Strallan is much the same as ever he was. Before all this business occurred, I mean. It's rather nice. I can live with it, at any rate."

They continued to walk down Downton Village's main street.

"Would you like to stay for a cup of tea?" Isobel offered when they reached the front door, "The young rabble all stayed to learn how to kill each other, and I think Sir Anthony is learning his lines and establishing the nature of the enmity between himself and Lord Grantham. Though they're probably playing billiards or some such by now."

"That would be nice," Elsie took off her hat and handed it to Molesley.

"Tea, ma'am?"

"Yes, please, Molesley."

"The post came late today, ma'am. It's on the sitting room table. And there was a note left. With no address on it."

"How odd," Isobel remarked.

Elsie followed her into the sitting room and took up her usual chair. Shifting through the post, Isobel found the offending note, turning it over in her hand and inspecting it with interest.

"Someone must have dropped it off by hand," she surmised, opening the envelope and reading the paper inside.

She took her time, reading it through twice, as if to ensure there had been no misunderstanding. Her face was paler than usual and her expression one of perfect surprise.

"What's the matter?" Elsie asked, so taken by this change in Isobel's expression that she had neglected to notice that the tea had arrived, "Isobel, whatever's wrong?"

Wordlessly, Isobel passed her the letter. She read it quickly. And then, realising exactly why it was that Isobel had read it twice, did so again. She could not quite believe it.

"Lord Strallan?" she asked, in little more than a fervent whisper, "_Again_?"

Isobel nodded, shakily. A smile was breaking across her face.

"It says he apologises for not saying this to you in person," Elsie read aloud, unnecessarily, "But he was rather afraid he'd lose his nerve. That he hasn't quite been able to readjust to living alone after Christmas and that he's made enquires about a small farm just outside the village. That he'd very much like it if you'd reconsider."

Isobel was smiling rather broadly now.

"Yes."

Still surprised, Elsie really could think of nothing else to say other than:

"My goodness, he's keen."

**Please review if you have the time. **


	2. Chapter 2

**This chapter is partially my dalliance with a pairing I hadn't really known existed until recently, and I thought it would be fun to stick a bit of it in. You never know, I might decide to write a bit more for them, though in this instance I've been a bit a bit cruel and made it one-sided. **

**Several Things Happen and Three Ladies Gauge Levels of Attraction**

And then several things happened. That they seemed to happen all at once was a testament, Elsie and Isobel came to reflect, to their truly hectic nature. It was fair to say that most of them came about through an unfortunate coincidence.

And it was pure coincidence that Daisy happened to be running an errand to Crawley House for Mrs Patmore at the time when Elsie and Isobel sat discussing Sir Anthony's latest advances- and with no great secrecy at that. Molesley hadn't been able to hustle her out of the passage way and into the kitchen quickly enough to prevent her overhearing a sizeable portion of the conversation. Thus, though the two women reached the decision to keep this as quiet as possible, by the time Elsie returned to the main house the news had already done the rounds of the kitchens and was on its way upstairs.

As was to be expected, all manner of social pandemonium then broke loose. When she arrived at lunchtime the next day, Isobel was alarmed to find Edith looking at her with even more distaste than she had been used to- verging on out and out dislike-, and Cora taking her hurriedly to the side to ask if "it was true". She knew better this time than to think Elsie might have told anyone, but still could not help but feel a little bit relieved when Cora told her that several of the maids had remarked that it was fortunate that Daisy wasn't under the housekeeper's jurisdiction for the sake of her life. Of course, the Dowager Countess was no more impressed with Isobel's "romantic antics"- as Elsie was coming, rather ironically, to refer to them- than Edith was, and frequently took the opportunity to say so.

But nothing, not Edith's hostility, Violet's disapproval, Mary's great approval or Matthew's amusement could have possibly prepared Isobel for what happened later on in the week. She had been minding her own business, stitching away at one of the first costumes of the season, when a knock on the dressing room door came.

"Come in," she called, thinking how unusual it was for someone to knock up here- they normally just came charging in.

The door opened and there stood Dr Clarkson.

"Dr Clarkson," she tried to stand up, but was prevented by the heavy dress laid out across her knees, "I didn't expect you for your costume until later on in the week," she hurriedly consulted her list, "You're playing the Apothecary, I understand?"

"Yes," the man seemed rather distracted, "And I realise I am not here at what you might call the proper time, but I'm not here about my costume. I wish to talk to you about a more personal matter, if I may, Mrs Crawley?" 

"My goodness, I think you had best sit down, then," she hoped it was alright that she laughed a little as she said it, she was at rather a loss for anything else to do- so puzzled as she was by what he had said. She put down her stitching to listen.

The doctor looked decidedly uncomfortable, but she thought she would let him speak first, in case she took it upon herself to laugh again.

"Mrs Crawley, I understand you've had another proposal?" he began.

"Yes," she told him, moderately disconcerted that indeed the whole village seemed to know about it, never mind the household.

"And you have not accepted it yet?"

"No, I haven't," she replied, the more indignant side of her wanting to ask what possible relevance these questions had.

But she was stopped by the look on Dr Clarkson's face.

"Mrs Crawley," he began slowly, "If that is indeed the case, then I was wondering if... that's to say, I wonder if you might consider... If you find that you still have no wish to marry Sir Anthony, you might consider me instead."

Isobel let the silence run on for just a little bit too long after that remark.

"Dr Clarkson, you're asking me to _marry _you?" she asked; the only explanation she was able to come up with was that she had misheard drastically.

"Yes." 

Now would probably be a spectacularly inappropriate- not to mention inconsiderate- time to laugh out loud. It was not that she thought Dr Clarkson an unworthy match for her, not in the least, it was just that she'd never supposed for a second that he might want to marry her! Heavens, he picked his moments! For a long time afterwards she was left to wonder how she managed not to break down into incredulous laughter.

…**...**

"Dr Clarkson!" Sybil exclaimed with a surprise that verged on joy, "Goodness me, Mrs C, you are popular at the minute!"

"Good Heavens girl, keep your voice down!" Isobel told her. She had decided- so as to spare Dr Clarkson being the subject of the next flood of gossip about the house- to keep her refusal of him private; excluding Elsie, of course. She wasn't entirely sure how Sybil had come to find out, and was willing to simply put it down to intuition, "No, Elsie, that won't do at all. You look like a peasant. I think we'd best give up for the moment." 

Mrs Hughes was having her costume fitted. Sighing, she got down from the dressing stool and extracted herself from her costume- which at this stage still resembled a tent. Sybil was still talking nineteen to the dozen.

"Two proposals in the space of a week!" she reminded them gleefully, "That's more than any of us ever gets, even during the season!"

Elsie, removing her peasant-ish headgear, announced that she by all accounts was one for a good proposal- never an engagement, mind you- but a proposal, yes. Isobel snorted appreciatively. Now comfortably back in her normal clothes, Elsie fixed her friend with her best attempt at a stern gaze.

"Have you got any further towards a decision?" she asked.

"No," Isobel replied, sounding a little tired, "I'm still not sure what I should say to him."

"Which one?" Sybil enquired, too politely.

Elsie snorted this time, taking one of the armchairs and finding something that needing stitching; earning herself a reprimanding look from Isobel. Isobel turned back to Sybil.

"Sir Anthony," she assured her, "I'm putting Dr Clarkson down to a fit of pique!"

"So why haven't you accepted Sir Anthony yet?" Sybil pressed on.

Isobel leant back against the table, looking at Sybil very seriously.

"You have to be sure about these things, Sybil," she told her solemnly, "I can't very well marry him and then just change my mind, can I? I feel guilty enough about leading him on a merry song and dance last time." 

"I suppose not," Sybil conceded, looking as if she was searching for an idea, "Let's see if we can help you make your mind up about how you feel."

Though Isobel was prompted to be highly suspicious of this suggestion, she still nodded slowly.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Well, what I think Lady Sybil means is that we should suggest hypothetical situations and see if they help you make your mind up at all," Elsie chipped in.

"That's exactly what I mean, Mrs Hughes."

Isobel still looked confused. Elsie put down her sewing.

"For instance: if I ran off with Sir Anthony, how would you feel?"

So improbable was that eventuality that Isobel couldn't help but look amused, before she even considered the oddity of the exercise she was getting herself into.

"Oh, use your imagination," Elsie told her sharply, "I'm a wilful, unmarried woman, used to getting her own way and, by my time of life, just bursting to elope with the first aristocrat who'll have me," here she turned to Lady Sybil, "If you repeat that to Mr Carson, I have an open invitation from your grandmother to box your ears whenever it suits me."

Sybil grinned at the floor.

"I'm not sure," Isobel admitted, feeling rather as if she'd been caught off guard, "I'd be very surprised, I suppose. Rather miffed, and I suppose rather upset too. I don't know! How would _you_ feel if I ran off with Mr Carson?" she asked.

"I'd shoot you," Elsie informed her.

"Mrs Hughes!" Sybil exclaimed, "You're in a rather violent spirit this afternoon, if I may say so."

"I don't think so," Elsie answered levelly, going back to her sewing, "My best friend running off with the man I consider my husband, I think I've every right to be a little bit vexed."

Isobel's expression changed from one of shock to one of great happiness.

"Your best friend? Oh, Elsie, I am flattered!"

Ignoring the eccentricities of her older companions, Sybil pressed on:

"What would you do if Edith started trying to win Sir Anthony back over?"

"Not a great deal, I'm only allowed to box _your_ ears."

"Not you, Mrs Hughes! Cousin Isobel?"

Isobel gave it some thought.

"I don't know. I suppose I should give Elsie to box Edith's ears if she did that."

"So, you'd be cross," Sybil prompted her.

"Yes," Isobel acknowledged, I suppose I would."

Elsie and Sybil exchanged a look.

"What?" Isobel looked from one to the other, taking in their expressions.

"More promising this time, Mrs Hughes?" Sybil asked.

"Definitely." 

**Please review if you have the time.**


	3. Chapter 3

**It should be noted that this story contains quite a few quotations from the best English teacher in the world, for which I can take no credit. **

**Quite an Isobel-centric chapter in that she appears in every scene. But, for some reason, I'm finding her very easy to write at the moment, and very very easy to ship. It's quite odd. And I have made her up a maiden name, as Julian Fellows has not yet supplied me with one. **

After the goings-on (or rather the injuries) sustained during the production of _Twelfth Night_, radical changes had taken place with regard to sword fighting practice during plays. The first was that Mrs Hughes refused to be anywhere near it when it could be avoided. The second was rather a more pressing problem; Cora had declared that it should be practised downstairs in the servants' hall where all that could be broken was the servant's crockery- which could easily be replaced. For this reason, the table and chairs had been cleared away from the middle of the room where Sybil, Edith and Isobel stood to address anyone involved in Act 1 Scene 1, or anyone who had to wield a sword during the course of the the production. Though Isobel should have been there solely in her capacity as Lady Montague, she had also been told to bring a good length of bandages with her- just in case.

"Right, then," Sybil began, "Does everyone have their script with them?"

There was a general affirmative reply.

"Well, then," she looked towards Edith, indicating that the director should now take charge, "Proceed." 

Sybil- Juliet- was not involved in Act 1 Scene 1, and seemed to realise that she was in danger of getting hit with a sword at some point. She clambered atop the table and sat there- her mother being too far across the room to tell her to get down. Edith looked exceptionally nervous. She cleared her throat.

"Shall we start from the beginning?" she asked tentatively, "Act 1 Scene 1. Gregory," she turned here to Thomas.

The footman- as well as disgruntled, as was prerequisite in his case- looked quite confused.

"But I haven't got anyone to read it to," he complained, "You haven't cast a Samson yet, m'Lady." 

Edith turned to Sybil.

"We haven't cast a Samson, Sybil."

Sybil looked up from the script she was writing something on and took a quick glance at Thomas.

"O'Brien can do it," she said dismissively, probably choosing the first candidate who came to mind and going back to her work.

The assembled group seemed to collectively wonder if they'd made some mistake with regard to the name Samson.

"You're going to ask O'Brien to play a man, Sybil?" her mother called across the room.

"Why not?" Sybil asked, "Have her affect a deep voice and put on a pair of trousers. People won't know the difference."

Well, Sybil was braver than most of them were by all accounts. Cora muttered something to Robert that sounded suspiciously like; "She won't like it, she won't like it at all. And I don't like to think what your mother'll say about it."

Thomas had altogether a different problem now.

"Well she's not here at any rate."

"Then skip up until the bit when the Montagues come in," Sybil told him sharply, "And I'll read her lines from up here."

"Right," Edith's voice was a semi-tone higher, "We need Abraham, then. Who's Abraham?"

William put up his hand.

"Well, then," she got out of the way, "William. From "Do you bite your thumb at us, Sir?""

William looked utterly perplexed.

"What?" Edith asked, sounding terrified.

"Well, I'm not trying to be difficult, m'Lady," he told her hesitantly, "But what on earth does that mean?"

There was a general murmur around the room; apparently he wasn't the only one who thought that was a very odd thing to be saying. Isobel hoped that it wasn't too obvious that she was trying very hard not to laugh. She was willing herself not to catch Anthony's eye. Sybil didn't need Edith's imploring look before she answered.

"Biting your thumb at someone is an insulting gesture," she explained to them, "At least in those days it was. Asking if someone is biting their thumb at you is pretty much asking if they're looking for a fight."

There was a murmur of comprehension as William took a pace towards Thomas and asked him if he was biting his thumb at him.

"I do bite my thumb, Sir," Sybil read Miss O'Brien's line for her.

"Do you bite your thumb at us Sir?" William repeated.

Sybil craned her neck in Thomas' direction.

"Is the law on our side if I say 'Ay'?"

"No."

"No sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir, but I bite my thumb, sir."

"This is bloody ridiculous," Thomas muttered, earning himself a scowl from Edith.

At the same time, Isobel, who by this time had wandered over to where Sir Anthony stood with Robert and Cora, broke down and heaved with laughter; the others not far behind her.

"Oh, Mama," Edith sounded near her wit's end, "Do try and be serious, please!"

"I'm sorry, dear," Cora giggled, "It's just such a peculiar thing to say."

Sybil had her eyebrows raised in an expression that clearly said; "I told you Romeo and Juliet was a bad idea, but would you listen?"

"Perhaps we ought to move on to the next part, the fight that is."

"Yes, I think that would be a good idea," Edith agreed, "Mr Branson?"

"Yes, m'Lady?" 

"Hand round the wooden swords."

By the time everyone who needed one had found themselves a wooden sword and found the person they were meant to be fighting, a good ten minutes had passed.

"Lady Montague; bandages at the ready!" Sybil called from the table, with a conspiratorial wink at Isobel.

Isobel grimaced back. Cora stood beside her frowning.

"Do be careful, Robert," she warned him, "Sir Anthony, don't thrash him too much, not at his time of life."

"Right," by this time Edith had also sought her own safety and got onto the table next to her sister. Cora looked rather put out to see two of her daughters now at such ridiculous heights, but Isobel was tempted to suggest that they do the same themselves, "If everyone's ready, off you go and we'll see how you get on."

There was some half-hearted lunging and contact of swords on swords. It was all very tame, really.

"Oh good grief, everyone," Sybil sounded quite put out, "That won't do at all! You're supposed to be having a street-brawl!"

There was a sudden uproar of cries and the sound of wood hitting wood. Isobel- just in time- threw caution to the wind and got onto a chair, pulling Cora onto the one beside it, as young men hitting each other with wooden sticks commenced in all directions. The last individual sentence Isobel heard above the noise was Sybil's call of;

"Keep it very villainous, Mr Branson!"

…**...**

"So that's why the servants' hall looked like someone had been killing people in it on Tuesday," Elsie surmised, pottering about Isobel's dressing room.

"I'm afraid so," Sybil told her, "We did clear up as best we could, but the butler and housekeeper having scarpered, we were at rather a loss."

"You would have scarpered, if you'd seen what I've seen."

Elsie gestured vehemently towards her own nose. Really, Sybil thought, Mrs Hughes was a better choice for the nurse than they would have ever thought.

"I thoroughly enjoyed myself," Isobel supplied, "It was an exciting afternoon, if nothing else."

"Speaking of exciting afternoons, what is everyone up to this afternoon?" Sybil asked.

Elsie threw her a look that was in itself dead-pan.

"Rehearsing," she informed her tersely.

"Rehearsing _what_?"

"Your wedding, I think," she replied, and then turned to Isobel, "Will you be coming to watch?"

"Whatever for?"

"Well, it's your son, getting married."

Isobel threw her an exasperated look over her shoulder as she shuffled threw the stacks of measurements on the table.

"He's not really getting married. It's acting, Elsie."

"I know, but-..."

Mrs Hughes seemed to think better of what she'd been about to say.

"But what?" Isobel enquired.

Elsie bit her lip.

"If he and Lady Mary don't sort themselves out soon, it'll be the only wedding you ever get to see him in."

She seemed to be waiting for a slap across the cheek, but Isobel apparently thought it was quite a fair point.

"There might be something in that," she acknowledged a little grimly, "But anyway I can't. I am occupied all afternoon."

"With what?" Sybil asked, "I thought all the costumes had been seen to."

"Your grandmother's hasn't."

"Oh. Oh good Lord, I am sorry." 

Evidently Sybil was anticipating the same amount of trouble as Isobel was. Isobel, still shuffling her papers, nodded.

"Oh, I do feel so guilty now," Sybil told her, "I should have realised you'd have to do this when I cast her!"

Elsie had taken up the armchair.

"Why did you cast her?" she asked.

"You may well ask!" Sybil exclaimed, "She's been nothing but a hazard ever since I did. One of the interpretations of the prologue is that it's there to make the action in the play seem somehow supernaturally preordained. Now I don't think that for a moment, it only makes all of the soppy romance seem more soppy and romantic; but I thought that was the tone Edith would take. As it happens, I turned out to be right about that. So, I thought, what would enhance the feeling of it seeming supernaturally preordained? And the conclusion I reached was to have the oldest person available read it."

Hearing this conclusion, Elsie burst out laughing. Sybil too, seemed to see the funny side of it and giggled too.

"Will you two stop it?" Isobel called from the desk," You don't have to spend all afternoon with her and keep a straight face! I do!"

…**...**

By the time she had made it back to Crawley House that evening, she was exhausted. She almost considered accepting the invitation to stay at the main house, but remembered her words to Sybil six months ago; that she had a lot to learn if she thought she was going to leave her house in the hands of men. And, hurrying up the footpath to the front door, she discovered that she couldn't have been more right: loud whooping sounds issued from the garden.

Once she had gained admittance to her sitting room, she found that Anthony was not one of the hoodlums whooping- he was in his armchair-, and that the cause of the whooping was cricket. She had little enthusiasm for cricket and decided not to become a hoodlum herself. She all but fell down onto the settee in the middle of the room as Molesley brought her some tea in.

She was rather disconcerted to find that Anthony was watching her, smiling.

"What?" she asked defensively.

"You look worn out," he replied.

"I know. You see how you fare, trying to make pleasant conversation with a fire-breathing dowager while trying to resist the temptation to stick pins in her."

He grinned at his own teacup.

"I shall have to face the disgrace of being more of a coward than my wife."

She chuckled appreciatively.

"What was her tack this afternoon?" he wanted to know.

"Maiden names," she replied, not attempting to hide her exasperation, "No doubt to try and establish the very lowly origin of mine."

"What is your maiden name?" he asked with interest.

She regarded him over her teacup.

"You'll laugh," she warned him.

"I dare say it won't kill me to." 

"Alright. It was Havisham."

He snorted loudly.

"I told you you'd laugh," she remarked dryly.

"You were called Miss Havisham?" he asked incredulously.

"I promise you I didn't live up to it," she informed him curtly, "Goodness only knows, I got married as soon as possible."

"I should have done, if I'd had a name like that!"

"Oh, do shut up!" she threw him a filthy look and then burst out laughing herself.

All this talk of marriage and maiden names was rather wearing her down.

**To understand why Isobel's maiden name is funny you need a very very basic knowledge of Charles Dickens; i.e. that Miss Havisham is a rather deranged character from _Great Expectations_. I'm sorry I haven't written for this in what feels like an age. Please review if you have the time. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Very silly. Silly, wearing a silly hat.**

**An Adventure**

"Are you sure we should be doing this?" Elsie whispered, as she and Isobel crept into the garage, still looking out for Mr Branson even though they knew he was busy rehearsing. That in fact, was the reason they were here in the first place.

"Aren't you?" Isobel hissed back over the roof of Sir Anthony's Rolls Royce, "It _was _your idea."

It was Isobel who was brave enough to wrench the door of the vehicle open first and get in. Elsie, exasperated with herself now- she had only been joking, but Isobel had taken her seriously- followed suit.

"Well, what else could we do?" she demanded, "All the men are busy being Malvolios-..."

"That was _Twelfth Night_," Isobel corrected her testily, "It's Mercutio. Or Benvolio. Or indeed Tybalt."

"That's not the point," Elsie snapped in reply, "The point is that none of them are here to drive the thing for us! And we need that cloth quickly. Trust Lady Edith to forget to tell us we needed a costume for Lady Mary and then ask that no one find out she'd forgotten!"

Isobel, however, seemed to have spotted another problem altogether.

"Elsie," she wore an expression of great long-suffering, her hand resting on the steering wheel, "We forgot to start the engine. Be a saint and get out and do it. Well, I can't do it!" she reminded her friend when she received a look fit to knock her down, "I'm steering."

"Are you sure you know how to drive this thing?" Elsie- more disgruntled still- asked as she got back into the car. The engine was humming nicely after three attempts to get it going.

"I told you," Isobel replied, manoeuvring the gear stick with great concentration, "My lodgers have been teaching me. Personally, I think they're just after the chance to get to use this car, ah! We're away."

The car moved slowly out of the garage and began to proceed in sombre state down the drive. Great anxiety passed through both of them as they realised that they were in full view to anyone who looked out of the windows in the main part of the house.

"So if you were to, say, over turn this car into a ditch," Elsie wondered aloud, as they passed through the front gates, "Or drive in into a large body of water, Sir Anthony would be pretty cross with you?"

Isobel noted her friend's sarcastic tone and the way she was gripping on to the edge of her seat for extra security.

"You needn't have come with me, you know," she pointed out, trying not to take her eyes off the road for too long.

"I'm not letting you die alone," Elsie told her with a snappiness that contradicted her enormously, "And how, might I ask, would you be able to get everything you need by yourself?" she wanted to know, "You need all of the materials for Lady Mary's costume and O'Brien's. And we need to get to Ripon and back fast enough for no one to notice we've gone! Speaking of which, don't you think we ought to go a little bit faster?"

Isobel scowled.

"I was concentrating on avoiding ditches," she replied rather snappishly, " And large bodies of water."

When she did put her foot down a little bit, the increase in pace was remarkable. Elsie clung on to her seat a little more firmly.

"Mind that cart!" Elsie told her as they careered around a corner onto the main road and nearly collided with the back wheel.

To her credit, the way in which Isobel swerved to avoid it was rather remarkable.

"I'm rather getting the hang of this," she told Elsie proudly.

Elsie on the other hand, was horrified. As they rounded the corner she had thought she recognised those wheels, and she had been right.

"It's Lady Mary!" she hissed in astonishment.

"Where?" Isobel asked, alarmed.

The car swerved a little again. Elsie fleetingly hoped that they did not encounter any other motorists. Sure enough, it was Mary driving the governess cart, Mary who they had almost run over, Mary who was now frowning at them curiously.

"She's spotted us!" Elsie exclaimed, unable to believe this particular stroke of misfortune had arisen to thwart their secrecy.

"Damn."

"Put your foot down, Isobel."

Unfortunately, the moment at which they encountered another motorist coincided closely with Isobel putting her foot down. Another alarmingly quick swerve was required to avoid a head-to-head collision. And this time, they didn't quite manage to stay on the road. Elsie shrieked, Isobel swore again.

The car having finally come to a halt in the ditch at the side of the road, they waited. After about ten seconds, they seemed to decide that it was unlikely that the car would blow up, and their heart rates started to calm down again.

"Well," Elsie remarked, daring herself to look Isobel in the face, "That's your proposal gone."

Then, the door of the car facing upwards was wrenched open by a panic-stricken Lady Mary.

…**...**

"But what on earth were you doing with the car in the first place?" Lady Mary asked Elsie, helping to pull her upwards and out of the car.

"Ask the mad-hatter here," Elsie pointed behind her to where Isobel was now gesturing to be given a hand out of the car too.

Mary obligingly bent down and helped her cousin to her feet.

"We were going to Ripon," Isobel explained, "You were the first person who wasn't supposed to find out," she exchanged an exasperated glance with Elsie, "Edith forgot to tell us you were going to play Rosaline, so we didn't have a costume for you. And we had to get something to make O'Brien a pair of trousers from."

"Edith had no business telling you to steal Sir Anthony's car though, surely?"

Elsie and Isobel exchanged a guilty glance.

"She didn't, m'Lady," Elsie informed her, "We took the car of our own accord. We thought it would be the best way to get what we needed quickly."

They both hung their heads a little, so much that they did not realise that Mary was barely biting back a grin- an incredulous grin- but a grin nevertheless.

"You stole your fiancé's car?" she asked Isobel, something close to admiration in her voice.

"He's not even my fiancé," Isobel told her flatly, "And I've already put his car in a ditch."

"Whatever he can expect from married life, it's certainly not boredom," Elsie remarked dryly.

Mary laughed and looked about to say something, they heard a call of her name from across the road. The three of them turned. The motor with which they had almost collided had parked across the road. And beside it stood Lady Rosamund Painswick. Elsie felt her stomach sink- any chance of secrecy they had ever had was now far gone. Mary, on the other hand, seemed to find this wonderful.

"Leave this to me," she hastily told Elsie and Isobel, before making her way over to her aunt, "Aunt Rosamund. Do be wonderful and give us a tow."

…**...**

Once Lady Rosamund's chauffeur had towed the car out of the ditch- and been sworn, along with his employer- to silence by Lady Mary, Elsie and Isobel found themselves travelling much more demurely back to Downton. Reaching the garage, they were met by Mr Branson, both relieved to find he was not to be strung up by his socks by Sir Anthony for losing his car and horrified to see Mrs Crawley driving it.

"Does Sir Anthony know?" Isobel asked him frantically, getting out of the car.

"No," the chauffeur replied, "But you're lucky. He and his Lordship finished later than the rest of us."

Elsie saw Isobel breath a sigh of relief.

"Is there much damage?" she wanted to know.

Branson finished his assessment of the car.

"Nothing that a lick of paint won't cover," he told her, "But I wouldn't take her out every day, if I were you."

"Rest assured, I'm never getting behind the wheel of a car again," Isobel told him, "Not after today," she turned to Elsie standing beside her, "We're alive!" she exclaimed to her companion, not attempting to hide the disbelief in her voice.

"Heaven only knows how!" Elsie replied as Isobel hugged her.

"Isobel?"

The voice came round the corner from outside the garage.

"Oh good Lord!" Isobel exclaimed quietly, "It's Sir Anthony! Quick, Mr Branson, get some paint on that mark!"

No sooner had the chauffeur dabbed a streak of paint onto the offending side of the car and hastily hidden the can behind his back that Sir Anthony appeared in the garage.

"I've been looking every where for you," he told her, pulling her into his arms now- she willed herself not to catch Elsie's eye- "I was worried."

"Oh, Elsie and I just... popped out for a minute," she told him, "We bumped into Lady Rosamund, and got... held up."

Exchanging a glance with Mr Branson, Elsie had to marvel at Isobel's rather astonishing manipulation of the truth. Sir Anthony, however, appeared not to notice.

"Come on," he told Isobel, "We've been invited to dine tonight, I've said we'll stay, give Molesley and Mrs Bird a night off."

"Alright," Isobel told him, "You and Branson go up. Elsie and I will follow."

Once the men had left, Elsie fixed her with a gaze. The narrowness of their escape did not evade them.

"He swallows that one!" Elsie whispered in an awed voice, "He was more concerned about you than his car. Marry him at once, Isobel."

**Please review if you have the time. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Very, very brief fluffy Carson/Hughes chapter; Charles' reaction to the aforementioned ridiculous antics.**

"You went out in Sir Anthony's motor car? With _Isobel _driving?" he asked incredulously as she climbed into bed beside him.

"Keep your voice down, please!" she told him, "No one's supposed to know except me and her. And Lady Mary. And Lady Rosamund- Lord only knows, I wish it hadn't been her to catch us, but we were grateful for that tow out of the ditch. And Mr Branson."

"I might have known he'd have had something to do with it," Charles grumbled, "Well," he answered her questioning look, "Who was there charging around when you had your nose broken?"

She rolled her eyes at this exaggeration.

"My nose wasn't broken," she corrected him, "Only bashed. And if we're going to compare the two incidents, it's a good job I had all of my clothes on this time!"

There was no argument he could offer to that.

"Anyway," she continued, "Mr Branson- once again- acted like a true gentleman and gave the car a lick of paint, practically under Sir Anthony's very nose."

She rested her head next to his shoulder, though not particularly wanting to go to sleep just yet. She was still a bit too alive after the day's excitement to be entirely peaceful.

"So Isobel still has an invitation of marriage?" he enquired, just to make sure.

Elsie snorted a little.

"She's skating on thin ice going on like this," she conceded, "But, yes, I think she's just about clinging on to it by the skin of its teeth. Would you marry a woman who crashed your prize motor into a ditch?"

"Once I've got myself a prize motor, you can chance your arm at it, and see how I react," he told her in quite a serious tone.

She laughed.

"Although, saying that, Sir Anthony acted like a very gentleman. I don't think he's noticed that his car's been anywhere yet."

"Then he has the wool pulled over his eyes far too easily," Charles surmised, "Especially, if he's going to marry Isobel."

"You're probably right about that," she acknowledged, "How were rehearsals this afternoon during our famous absence?"

"Very dull," he told her, "Playing a priest isn't half the fun that playing a drunken old knight or a murdering king is. Though I'm thankful that I already have my costume; or else you two would have probably seen fit to break into the rectory and steal the vicar's clothes."


	6. Chapter 6

**What O'Brien does in the middle section is modelled on what I did this week. **

"Is it true?" Sybil asked in a hushed voice, having seen Elsie and Isobel at the other end of the corridor and bounding up to them to meet them.

"Is what true?" Elsie asked her.

Sybil rolled her eyes, as if it should have been obvious what she meant.

"Is it true that you two pinched Sir Anthony's car and drove it into a ditch?" she asked.

Elsie was about to ask how on earth she knew, but Isobel cut across her.

"Sybil, you make it sound as if we stole it with the sole purpose of vandalising it!" she exclaimed as quietly as we could, "It was all for a good cause; it was for your ridiculous production."

"It's not my ridiculous production," Sybil corrected her, looking affronted, "It's Edith's ridiculous production. I was all for The Merry Wives of Windsor, remember? Anyway, I don't see why the play made you drive clean off the road. Neither of your characters do that in any of the scenes!"

"That's not the point," Elsie told her hurriedly, "The point is how on earth do you know what happened?" 

"Mary told me," Sybil replied, "Don't look like that," she told them, seeing their faces, "She didn't want to, I wanted to know why she looked so frightful when she got back from taking the governess cart out."

"Yes," Isobel conceded, "That's how Matthew found out yesterday. He saw me before I managed to get myself tidied up before dinner."

"So the whole household knows!" Elsie surmised, exasperated.

Isobel fixed her with a very clear look.

"Because you didn't tell Mr Carson of your own free will..." she guessed.

There was no clever response Elsie could give to that.

"And Sir Anthony didn't find out?" Sybil continued.

Isobel shook her head.

"Thank the Lord," she replied.

"Goodness," Sybil remarked, "A man who noticed you'd been gone but not his car. A rare thing. But perhaps I say that because my suitor is a chauffeur."

…**...**

"Graces alive! What on earth have you got on your legs, Sarah O'Brien?"

Activity in the kitchen had all but ceased. O'Brien glowered back at the crowd goggling at her.

"It's not my flaming fault!" she replied crossly- feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious- striding across to where Mrs Patmore stood motionless, gaping at the trousers she was wearing, "It was Lady Sybil, apparently, who opened her big mouth and said I had to play a man! Close your flaming mouth, Mrs P, Gwen had to wear trousers when she was playing that Viola, why's it different when it's me?" 

The cook moved her mouth a couple of times, apparently considering this, but unable to reach a conclusion.

"Because Gwen carried them off a bit better," Daisy chipped in.

This earned her quite a withering stare from the most recently trouser-wearing contingent in the room. However, Mrs Patmore came to her rescue. Anna didn't know if Miss O'Brien or Daisy was more surprised by this.

"Well," she scratched her head, "Gwen's a lot more... narrow than you are Sarah. Don't take that the the wrong way, I mean she looked a lot more like a boy than you do."

Daisy, bravely in Anna's opinion, nodded.

"Yeah, you don't walk very much like a man, Miss O'Brien."

The lady's maid looked momentarily dumb-founded to find Daisy and Mrs Patmore agreeing or _anything_ let alone having the misfortune to be the thing they agreed on.

Mrs Patmore nodded.

"That's it, I think. Oi, Thomas!" she shouted at the passing by footman, "Come in here and walk so Sarah can see."

Though it was clear that Thomas was perplexed by this command, being perplexed was something he never liked having to own up to, so, after a moment's pause, he strode cleanly up and down the kitchen a few times. Eyes then swivelled back to Miss O'Brien, who proceeded to stride with an uncomfortably straight back up and down.

"That won't do at all!" Mrs Patmore exclaimed, with an exasperated shake of her head, "Your arms are out as if you've got rolls of carpet under them, girl!"

O'Brien tried again.

"A bit more movement," Mrs Patmore told her, "You look like you're in a straight jacket from the madhouse!"

"I'll be in a madhouse before you've finished with me!" Miss O'Brien exclaimed to the cook as she came to a halt, "This is hard, you know, in a flaming corset!"

"Rubbish!" Mrs Patmore told her, "Just loosen your joints up a bit, you're walking like you've just got out of a coffin!"

O'Brien gave it another go.

"Not like that, girl!" Mrs Patmore scolded once more, "Swinging your hips like that you look like you're trying to seduce someone!"

Anna thought it would be best if she got out of the kitchen before the explosion.

…**...**

"You know, I really am going to have to get the set sorted out," Sybil remarked as the ladies sat in the drawing room after dinner, "The set's never been our strong point and I think this time is could make all the difference."

"Then you must tell Branson what you need and he'll pick it up for you the next time he goes to the village," her mother told her, "I take it it won't be anything too unorthodox?" she asked hurriedly.

Sybil sniffed as William poured her some more coffee.

"I don't call paint unorthodox," she remarked, "I suppose you might help me, William, if you've a moment to spare? Excellent, I imagine we'll have marvellous fun. We'll do most of it in just a simple wash, but I should like it if some of the details were done in oil."

"Oil?"

The ladies assembled turned to look at the chair from which her grandmother's voice had issued.

"Yes, Granny, oil. Oil paint," Sybil clarified, probably thinking her grandmother may have misunderstood the context, "Not the stuff that Branson puts in the car."

"I'm aware of that!" Violet exclaimed, indignant, "I know perfectly well that oil paints exist and that is why I'm astonished, Cora, that you would let Sybil use them! I mean, it's all very _bohemian_, isn't it?"

At this accusation, Isobel saw Cora exchange a rather surprised look with Rosamund over her coffee cup and said nothing. However, Isobel herself was feeling rather daring at that moment.

"I wouldn't call oil bohemian, exactly," she replied, feeling eyes swivel towards her now, "Unusual, perhaps, original. Rather romantic, really."

She knew that she was lucky that Violet's stare did not physically burn her.

"Well," the Dowager Countess surmised after a moment, "I suppose _you _would say that, wouldn't you?"

"I rather thought I just did," Isobel replied smartly.

She heard the slightest intake of breath from Mary beside her. Violet's features settled themselves even more deeply into an accurate depiction of true displeasure.

"I suppose," she continued an icier tone, "That many things to someone like yourself are not at all as extraordinary as they are to myself. Take the motor car, for instance."

There was something in that for instance that struck a fearful chord in Isobel, something in Violet's could, fixed stare as it left her lips. She knows!, she thought wildly, she knows about me and Elsie and the car! She must do! Isobel tried not let her panic show in her face, but it was not easy. Such information in the hands of one such as Violet could prove fatal to anything she ever hoped could exist between herself and Anthony.

"Of course," Violet continued, "Such radical things are all very well on a small scale. _But if ever anyone got to hear about them..._"

Her meaning was clear. Isobel found herself ruing her decision to take the car even more than she had when they went flying into the ditch. The group was deadly silent, looking backwards and forwards between the two of them. Cora looked confused, Mary horrified, Sybil fearful. Rosamund was watching the rug, but Isobel felt sure that her ears were pricked for the next move.

Almost every single one of them jumped a little as the drawing room door opened and the men came milling through from the drawing room. As Robert and Anthony came in at the head of the party, Isobel saw Violet rise to her feet out of the corner of her eye. Oh no, Isobel thought, you're not ruining this for me!

She got to her own feet much more swiftly, and made her way to meet Sir Anthony in the middle of the room. He looked mildly surprised by her enthusiasm, but pleased all the same. She beamed at him quickly.

"Thank you, Sir Anthony," she told him loudly enough for the room to hear, sensing Violet behind her, "I will marry you."

**Please review if you have the time.**


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